


Chaos Is A Ladder

by RobinofLangley



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossbow, F/M, Human pincushion, Sadism, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-12-02 13:30:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11510421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinofLangley/pseuds/RobinofLangley
Summary: After her betrayal of Petyr Baelish, Ros is brought to Joffrey who "wanted to try something new… something daring". This is an attempt to recreate the events that were mentioned but left off-screen in S3E6, "The Climb". Features graphic violence (crossbow shots galore) and some sensuality, but ultimately isn't worse in this regard than the imagery from the show.





	1. Intro

## 

**DISCLAIMER**

“Chaos Is A Ladder” is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.

Game Of Thrones, the characters depicted within, and the imagery used are property of their respective owners. This story is a derivative work written under the principles of fair use.

This work contains scenes of graphic violence, some sexually suggestive content and occasional use of explicit language. Readers who find this uncomfortable or are not allowed by law to be exposed to such content should not proceed. Suggested fiction rating is Mature.

The author strongly disapproves of practicing the depicted violence in real life, or any kind of non-consensual violence for that matter.

—

Cover image by Robert M. Ball, commissioned by HBO as part of the “Beautiful Death” series

 

 

Story by Robin of Langley  
robinoflangley@gmail.com

2017

 

 

Also available in PDF (with pretty formatting and images), EPUB and TXT formats  
[Download / view on Google Drive](https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0B8DhVA4eIk1XMW1vS3ZWMzR1bDA?usp=sharing)

## 

**AUTHOR’S FOREWORD**

“Chaos Is A Ladder” is… something with a bit of history to it.  
  
It is an attempt to recreate the events that were mentioned, but not shown on screen, in an episode from Season 3 of Game Of Thrones, namely the unfortunate demise of Ros at the hands of Joffrey. I originally intended to write this right away, way back in 2013 when the episode first aired, but life always seemed to be getting in the way. The story survived two major rewrites, year-long breaks and many hours of editing, and only in 2017, four years after its conception, I consider it finished.  
  
I won’t deny that it started as a “torture porn” of sorts. In many ways, it still is, if I am to be honest. However, over time it morphed into something that explores the characters’ minds and – hopefully – has a certain mood and atmosphere to it, all while staying true to the source material. The goal was to create a legitimate story that stands on its own but fits in with the canon like a missing puzzle piece… or a “lost episode”, if you will.  
  
The latter metaphor might be particularly relevant when it comes to the length of the story. At almost 16 000 words, it takes 1–2 hours to read, depending on the pace. For maximum immersion, I probably recommend trying to read it in one sitting if possible, but for the readers’ convenience, the story is split into several “parts”. It was written without explicit chapters in mind, but these breaks are placed where it would be most natural to put the story down for a while.  
  
Whoever you are – a Game Of Thrones fan, a lover of violence fiction, or a literature buff passing by – I hope there is something in this story for you.  
  
_– Robin of Langley_

## 

**GAME OF THRONES SEASON 3 – A BRIEF MEMO**

The story is set in _Seven Kingdoms_ , a country occupying most of the vast continent of _Westeros_. The current King is a young 18 year old boy _Joffrey Baratheon_ , a spoiled child who exhibits unnaturally cruel, unreasonable and at times outright sadistic behavior. He is a child of incest between the wife of the previous King – his legal father – and her brother, thus his claim to the Throne is invalid – which is probably the worst kept secret in all Seven Kingdoms, and something that Joffrey himself heartily denies. Children born out of wedlock – called _bastards_ – do not inherit the lands, titles and wealth of their fathers, and are generally despised by society.  
  
The King has a _Small Council_ at his hand, which provides him with advice on various political and social matters. Among other members of the Small Council, the ones relevant to the story are _Varys_ , a eunuch from faraway lands who has a network of spies in his employ and thus acts as the Crown’s head of intelligence (“master of whisperers”), and Lord _Petyr Baelish_ , a nobleman coming from a small and powerless dynasty (“house”) who has schemed and plotted his way to the top of the food chain. The two have a sort of a rivalry relationship, trying to undermine each other’s plans both for personal gains and for the sake of competition.  
  
Petyr Baelish also owns a brothel in _King’s Landing_ , the capital of Seven Kingdoms, which provides him with additional income and helps him build connections with various noblemen who visit his establishment.  
  
_Ros_ is a red-haired prostitute in her 20s hailing from the northern region of the country, called simply _The North_. Initially employed by Baelish as a common whore, she proved to possess useful literacy and management skills and was later chosen by Petyr to be his personal assistant. Recently, seeing that Ros has access to many of his documents, Varys recruited her to spy on Petyr for him and offered his protection.


	2. I

## 

**I**

She had made a terrible mistake.  
  
Staring at the ground, Ros dragged along the sunset-lit streets of King’s Landing, accompanied by two knights of the Kingsguard. A few steps ahead, a tall, well-groomed man in a long embroidered costume with a mockingbird pin was leading the procession – Lord Petyr Baelish, her employer. One of the most dangerous men in all Seven Kingdoms, as some people rightfully described him. Coincidentally, the man she had betrayed.  
  
When the knights, one of whom Ros recognized as Meryn Trant, a known degenerate, had broken into her room at Baelish’s pleasure house, he had been remarkably silent – yet his eyes had been glowing with hatred, a sight fairly rare for the always composed and rational man that Petyr had a reputation of being. The only words he had said to her in his chilling, menacing voice as she had been shoved out into the street were “You are working tonight.”  
  
And there she was, escorted along the streets of the capital in clothes far too transparent and revealing, left to wonder anxiously where she was being taken to and why. Though, admittedly, Baelish’s apparent fury answered the second question fairly well – Ros could think of only one reason in the world for him to be this mad at her. How foolish she had been to think that playing double games with him and that scheming eunuch Varys would bring her anything but trouble, she scolded herself. Varys, that sly master of whisperers, was nowhere around to save her now, despite all of his assurances of protection. In retrospect, standing between two of the greatest plotters of the realm and playing spy games had to be one of the worst decisions she had made during her stay in the capital.  
  
Ros lifted her head and quietly gasped, suddenly realizing that the winding path they were taking was slowly but inevitably bringing them closer to the Red Keep, the ugly tall structure that looked like it was painted with blood way too often at sunsets. “My Lord,” she spoke sheepishly, her voice breaking nervously. Baelish didn’t respond, continuing down the paved street. “Lord Baelish!” Ros raised her voice, her step slowing. “Where are you taking me? Please. I deserve to know at least this much.”  
  
Baelish stopped and turned around with a sigh, giving a sign to the guards to stop as well. “Allow me to remind you of something,” he spoke softly. “It is unbecoming of a whore to ask questions. Whores do what they are told, they serve their client and they make sure the client is satisfied. Do not ever forget that.”  
  
“I am not a whore!” Ros objected, stressing every word. “Not anymore. I’m your assistant. My Lord, please… Have you forgotten?”  
  
A subtle, almost unnoticeable smirk appeared on Petyr’s lips as he approached her. “Oh, but you are.”  
  
A look of disgust and fear crossed Ros’ face. Biting her lip, she looked him in the eye, feeling her chin tremble. After observing her reaction for a couple more seconds with that same hint of a smirk on his face, Baelish turned around, clicked his fingers and marched on. The guards obeyed, following him.  
  
Ros, however, did not. After a second of hesitation, she turned around, lifted the skirts of her peach-colored tunic and took off in the opposite direction, her face blushing from anxiety, tears welling up in her eyes and warm wind running through her curly hair.  
  
A few moments later, a heavy armored glove suddenly reached from behind and squeezed her shoulder, and Ros gasped as she was whirled around, almost tripping over the hem of her tunic. Towering above her, Meryn Trant raised his free hand and slapped her hard across her face. Ros exhaled loudly and immediately pressed a hand against her terribly burning cheek, feeling scratches from the metal glove on her left cheekbone and lower lip. She instinctively raised her shoulders, as if that could save her from another hit, looking up at the knight in fear.  
  
“Ser Meryn!” Baelish was quick to intervene. “I’ll have to ask you to refrain from that. I’m afraid that’s excessive.”  
  
Trant scoffed, turning around. “I take orders from the King, Littlefinger. Not from you,” he spat back.  
  
Ros saw a brief glimpse of a barely contained emotion flash on Baelish’s face. She knew he couldn’t stand that nickname.  
  
“Of course!” Petyr grinned, clasping his hands together. “You are right. But I’ve heard His Grace likes them pretty. Makes me wonder, really… What would he have to say if he learned that someone abused his present before him? Let us not make this unnecessarily complicated.”  
  
Ros felt all color drain from her face as she heard the words. So that’s what it was… _His Grace_. Of course. Everything clicked into place. The Kingsguard, the secrecy, the back streets. Of all the high lords dwelling in the Red Keep who could ask for her company, of course, it just _had_ to be him. She would choose anyone over him. Anyone, even that old fart Pycelle, or even the greasy beggar up the street watching them now, but not him.  
  
Not that little monster.  
  
“Lord Baelish,” she pleaded as Petyr approached her and looked at her face attentively. “Please, My Lord, please. Don’t give me to _him_!”  
  
Baelish squinted his eyes and pulled a handkerchief out of the pocket of his costume, then reached to Ros’ face to wipe blood from her lip. “There,” he said quietly, putting the handkerchief away, then nodded to Trant. “I hope we have a mutual understanding.” He turned around and continued down the street.  
  
“Move!” Meryn bellowed, grabbing Ros by the elbow and gesturing to the other guard to do the same. Ros closed her eyes, fighting the panic growing inside her as she was pulled along. The memory of what had happened the last time when she had been in Joffrey Baratheon’s chamber was too fresh.


	3. II

## 

**II**

Meryn Trant took one last heavy step down the stairs deep in the bowels of the Red Keep, walked over to the thick wooden door guarded by two more members of the Kingsguard and knocked on it. “My King, Lord Petyr Baelish is here,” he announced loudly. Petyr raised his eyebrows, looking at Trant with a silent question painted on his face. “With a present,” the knight added, giving Baelish a dirty look.  
  
“Let him in,” a young voice answered from behind the door after a brief moment of silence. Trant grabbed the door handle and pulled the door open, then stood aside, letting Petyr and Ros slip inside before following them into the room with the other guard.  
  
“Your Grace,” Baelish bowed low to the golden-haired King sitting on a soft bench in the center of the spacious, richly decorated bedroom.  
  
“Lord Baelish,” Joffrey Baratheon nodded with a smile. “I see you have brought what I asked for?”  
  
“Exactly, Your Grace,” Petyr clasped his hands at the level of his waist and took a step forward. “Just like you asked. Someone well suited for your little… experiment.”  
  
An uneasy feeling filled Ros’ stomach. Without turning around, Baelish clicked his fingers, and she felt Trant push her from behind. With a nervous exhale, she stepped forward as well, feeling her heart racing in her chest as Joffrey eyed her barely dressed body.  
  
“I hope you like her, Your Grace,” Baelish continued with an obsequious smile glued to his lips. “They say those with red hair are the best thing money can buy for these… activities.”  
  
“Uhh, yes, yes.” Joffrey seemed to be too preoccupied with staring at Ros to pay enough attention to Petyr’s words. He moved nervously on his seat, as if the dialogue was making him uncomfortable. “About that, Lord Baelish,” he raised his voice and leaned back on the bench in a pose that seemed a bit too strained. “I do understand that… this… may bring some loss of income to your establishment, even if temporary. You will be paid twice the price we were discussing, to mitigate your losses.” A forced smug smile appeared on his face.  
  
Ros closed her eyes. A sticky, sickening feeling of primal fear was creeping up on her.  
  
“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Baelish bowed respectfully once again. “Though I assure you, that is unnecessary. I have decided she would be a present, actually, and I refuse to take money for presents from friends. And we _are_ friends, aren’t we, Your Grace? Besides, I am sure the Crown could find far better use for money in these troubled times.”  
  
Looking up at Petyr, Joffrey slowly stood up from his seat and ran a hand along the front of his tight-fitting golden costume with streaks of red in it. “I’d like to think we are, Lord Baelish,” he nodded with a respectful smile. “And I appreciate your generosity. I assure you, your loyalty and this expensive present,” he glanced at Ros again, “will not be forgotten. Still, if there is anything within my power to help your pleasure house deal with this inconvenience…”  
  
Baelish smiled timidly, looking at Joffrey. “Believe me, Your Grace, in my establishment we accommodate all inclinations. We have learned to deal with inconveniences like these.”  
  
Ros took a small step back and quietly gasped when she bumped into the armor of Meryn Trant standing behind her.  
  
“Very well,” Joffrey nodded. “I will not waste your time any longer then, I am sure it is very valuable to you these days. You are sailing to the Eyrie tomorrow, I’ve heard?”  
  
Petyr couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “News and rumors of my journey travel so fast that others learn them before me, I have found recently.” He glanced back at Ros. For a brief moment, the smile on his face changed to a cold look of disappointment as his eyes fixed on her. “Though if the weather holds, I set sail tomorrow, indeed.”  
  
“We may not see each other for a while, then,” Joffrey said, and Baelish nodded affirmatively. “Congratulations on your arrangement with Lady Arryn. You are a fortunate man.”  
  
“Same as you, Your Grace,” Petyr was quick to return the courtesy. “Your betrothed Lady Margaery is a rare beauty.”  
  
Joffrey chuckled shyly, looking down at the floor. “She is, indeed. I hope you have a safe journey, Lord Baelish.”  
  
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Petyr bowed low once again before turning around and heading for the door. As he walked past Ros, the sheer look in his eyes when he looked at her one last time made the knot in her stomach twist tighter.  
  
The heavy door shut with a thud behind the nobleman, and Ros closed her eyes for a couple seconds, inhaling deeply and trying to calm down. The only man who could save her from what was coming was gone now – not that he had been very eager to do so when he had the chance, of course. But, even in the light of the recent events, Petyr Baelish was still someone capable of compassion, Ros had been hoping. The people she was left with now had none of it.  
  
Slowly, Joffrey approached her, his grayish eyes steadily fixed on her pale round face. Looking down at the floor, too scared to look him in the eye, Ros could swear she could feel the boy’s cold stare on her skin as he stood in front of her. After a few seconds of tense silence, Joffrey reached for her chin with his hand, making Ros shudder and lift her head up. The orange flames of the chandeliers in the dimly lit room illuminated her face, bringing the fresh scratches on her cheek into Joffrey’s view. The young King took a step back and looked at the knight standing behind the woman. “Ser Meryn,” he said in a commanding voice, and a faint glimmer of hope shone in Ros’ heart. Whatever torment awaited her, a part of her was glad that this animal would get his own share of the King’s fury.  
  
The realization of the same idea had to be painted on Trant’s face behind her because Joffrey scoffed, observing him. “Do you see that baldaquin frame above my bed?” he asked instead. He walked back to the small table next to the seat he had been sitting on and grabbed a short rope from it, then threw it towards the second guard. “Tie her to it.”  
  
“What?” Ros protested weakly as Trant rudely grabbed her by the arm and pulled her in the direction of the bed. “Y-your Grace,” she pleaded in panic, her heart pounding in her chest. “That is unnecessary!”  
  
Joffrey remained silent, watching the two guards tie her hands together in front of her. Trant reached to the baldaquin hanging from the frame between two bedposts at the feet of the bed and pulled it aside, then yanked Ros’ arms up. “I will do as you please, Your Grace,” the red-haired woman continued, “but this is… Your Grace, please!” She wiggled between the two knights, and the rope that had been thrown over the frame slipped out of their hands.  
  
Meryn Trant sighed and looked at Joffrey, as if seeking permission for something. The King nodded, and the next moment the guard’s armored fist slammed hard into Ros’ stomach right under her breasts, making her wheeze and double over in pain as the air was knocked out of her. Squirming and moaning, she almost slid down to the floor if it hadn’t been for the second guard who held her. Ros closed her eyes, blinking tears of resentment and pain away as her arms were yanked up again. She sobbed, feeling dull pain from the blow spread across her abdomen, and leaned slightly on the bedside with her lower back to support herself. Up above, the rope was digging painfully into her wrists as the two guards were finishing the tight knot.  
  
“Good,” Joffrey commented with a nod of satisfaction, observing the result when the knights stepped away. “Very good. Although… Ser Meryn,” the young King licked his lips, stopping the guards in their tracks as they headed for the door. “I want to see her legs,” he said with a smug smile, and the girl shuddered, seeing Trant step closer to her again. “Undress her.”  
  
As the knight reached for the skirts of her tunic, Ros shut her eyes and hissed quietly, fear and disgust clearly painted on her face. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room, and soon what little was left of the piece of clothing fell to her feet. Trant reached down to pick it up and lay it on the side of the bed next to her hips, and Ros audibly exhaled, almost _feeling_ the gaze of the men in the room on her skin.  
  
“Now leave me,” Joffrey commanded, making a shiver run down her spine. “And Ser Meryn, send those other oafs at the door away. I want you two to guard the door tonight. A-and I am not to be bothered,” he added with a slight hint of nervousness in his voice. “By anyone.”  
  
Trant nodded, giving a sign to the other guard to leave.


	4. III

## 

**III**

As the door closed behind the knights with a thud, Ros exhaled nervously, her eyes peeled on the young King as he slowly walked across the room back to the seat he had been sitting in before. Her gaze traveled to the table next to it, and Ros sighed quietly when she saw a jug and a cup standing on it next to a bowl of grapes, something that she hadn’t noticed in the relative darkness of the room before.  
  
Reasoning with an inebriated man can be devilishly difficult, even if you are not tied to his bed.  
  
“Have I seen you before?” Joffrey asked in a casual tone after a few seconds of tense silence, starting to slowly walk around the room, glancing at Ros every now and then. “You look oddly familiar.”  
  
“Y-you have, Your Grace,” Ros nodded, observing him anxiously. “Your uncle sent me and another girl to you some time ago… As a nameday present,” Ros shuddered as she spoke the words. It was far from a happy memory. When Joffrey had aimed the crossbow at her on that dreaded evening, she’d had no other option but to obey his commands, flogging poor Daisy so hard that she had to be carried out of the chamber, unable to walk on her own. But despite the remorse Ros was feeling in regards to that episode, deep inside she was glad that she hadn’t been the one whipped bloody. Today, though, she was the only whore in this room. This thought was particularly concerning.  
  
“Ah, yes, of course,” Joffrey grinned, continuing to wind up circles around the room. “How could I forget. That… That other girl, how is she feeling?”  
  
“She is feeling well now, Your Grace,” Ros answered timidly and gulped, staring past Joffrey and the balcony behind him at the darkness quickly descending over the city.  
  
“Good, good,” the King muttered and walked back to his seat. “I suppose you remember _this_ then, do you?” He grunted, reaching behind the table and grabbing a heavy crossbow that had been leaned against it, hidden in the shadows. Ros couldn’t hold back a loud gasp as the weapon was brought into view. She pressed herself tighter against the bedside, as if that could somehow stop Joffrey from doing whatever it was that he intended to do with that thing.  
  
The young King scoffed, observing her reaction. “You are not a fan of weapons, I see?” he asked with a grin. “This one’s actually a new design, I’ve just had it made recently. Now, _if_ you remember, that old one had a crank that had to be turned, a really stiff one. Pretty hard to load. But this one…” Joffrey raised the arm he was holding the crossbow with, and Ros flinched from this sudden movement. Keeping the weapon pointing up, the King leaned down to pick up some mechanical device. “For this one, you use this lever to draw the string. Like this,” he grunted, attaching the lever to a joint in the center of the crossbow frame, then slowly pulled it towards himself, drawing the string back. “It’s very easy,” he detached the lever and dropped it onto the table.  
  
“Then, you just put the bolt here… uh…” Joffrey looked around, searching for something. Ros gasped when he suddenly dropped the loaded crossbow down onto the tabletop with a loud clang and bent down to reach for something standing on the floor behind the table. Even without a bolt in it, the weapon looked menacing with its string drawn tight, tight enough that it seemed it could sever fingers if it snapped. The memory of what it felt like to have a crossbow pointed at her – even if it had been an inferior one, as Joffrey had just stated – didn’t bring any comfort, either.  
  
The boy really liked his crossbows, it seemed.  
  
“Here they are,” Joffrey finally pulled a bucket from under the table and placed it on top of it. Feathers were sticking out of it, and it didn’t take a vivid imagination to understand what the bucket contained. “So, you take the bolt,” the young King continued casually, grabbing one of the red-feathered shafts and pulling it out. The pointed metal tip glinted menacingly. “You put it here,” Joffrey carefully placed the bolt into the groove running along the frame of the crossbow and lifted the weapon up, holding it with two arms now and positioning his right hand near the trigger. He slowly turned around to face the bed, and the knot in Ros’ stomach jumped up to her throat. Ice-cold shivers crawled along her skin as her whole body tensed, her eyes locked on the pointy tip of the bolt looking directly at her.  
  
‘Why?!’ The silent question never escaped her lips, but it echoed in her head, a desperate attempt at trying to urgently reconcile and come to terms with the fact that this was the end. No warning, no time to accept it… and no reason. Just a sharp bolt ready to pierce her heart or head, out of the blue. Unable to stare at the thing, Ros shut her eyes tightly, turning her head to the right with a grimace on her face…  
  
“… and then you fire!” Joffrey’s triumphant exclamation concluded his speech, and a snapping sound of the released bolt was heard – followed a moment later by a loud thud to the right from Ros. The girl’s shriek resounded across the room as she flinched and her eyes flew wide open; to her right, a feathered bolt was sticking out of the wooden bedpost roughly at the level of her hips, vibrating and producing a quickly fading buzzing sound. Ros exhaled loudly, staring at the bolt embedded deep in the wood. She turned her head to look at Joffrey again, her mouth wide open in shock; grinning, the King stood in the center of the room with the crossbow in his hands, observing her reaction. Ros gulped and exhaled nervously, feeling her heart pounding in her chest. Blood rushed to her extremities, producing a tingling sensation.  
  
“Have I frightened you?” Joffrey asked casually and reached to the bucket with the bolts, picking another red-feathered shaft from it.  
  
“Y-you have…” Ros stuttered quietly, suddenly feeling her mouth become dry. “Yes, Your Grace.” As if entranced, she watched Joffrey repeat the procedure of loading the crossbow and placing the bolt into the groove to the accompaniment of her heartbeat echoing in her ears.  
  
“Don’t be so scared,” Joffrey jerked the crossbow up again, aiming it at the bed, and Ros let out a pathetic high-pitched whimper, unable to stare calmly at the weapon pointed at her. “I want you to get used to it.” The same sharp sound of the release pierced the silence, and the feathered bolt smashed into the same bedpost with a thud, once again making Ros flinch and let out a short yelp. She closed her eyes, trying to fight away the nauseating, dizzying feeling of fear. When she finally opened them and looked at the bolt, she found it to be sticking out of the bedpost peculiarly close to the first one; in fact, it was so close that it couldn’t have been a mere coincidence. Joffrey had good aim, though it brought little consolation. It only meant he could hit her heart just as easily if he wanted to.  
  
But then again… He didn’t. Perhaps this was just his means of intimidation, after all.  
  
“Your Grace,” Ros started cautiously, watching the King attach the lever to the crossbow again and pull it. “I’d like to offer some advice… as someone experienced in providing pleasure. If I may,” she added humbly.  
  
“Go on,” Joffrey nodded absent-mindedly, reaching for another bolt. “Speak your mind.”  
  
Ros gulped, choosing her next words carefully. “Such games of fear and intimidation may be exciting,” she continued, “but they can also be dangerous. What you are doing is… not a safe way of making one tremble with fear, though I assure you, it’s very… effective,” she shuddered. “Your Grace, I _am_ scared, you are right. But… but I don’t know what it is that you want me to do. But… I-I’ll gladly do it, just… just please. Put the crossbow down.”  
  
Squinting, Joffrey looked at her along the frame of the loaded weapon, and Ros felt a shiver down her spine once again as the crossbow was pointed directly at her. “What it is that I want you to do?” he slowly repeated her question, and Ros nodded sheepishly, looking at him with hope in her eyes. The King smiled. “I just want you to stand there.”  
  
Joffrey’s finger pressed the trigger, and, with the same sharp sound of the release, the bolt ripped through the air and plunged into Ros’ right shin, a few inches below her knee, narrowly missing the bone and piercing through the flesh, its tip sticking out of the exit wound in her calf. Oddly enough, pain didn’t hit Ros immediately – she gasped loudly and stared at her leg in disbelief for a second or two before the terrible burning sensation washed over her. Immediately losing support of her right leg, she leaned back on the bedside instinctively and groaned loudly as all the muscles in her body tensed from the sudden, overwhelming pain. Clenching her teeth, she let out a series of short muffled screams as the pulsating waves of pain finally began to hit her in full force. Shifting clumsily into an awkward pose and making the rope above her creak quietly, she stared down at her leg, her eyes wide open; the first thin trickles of blood already started to seep out of the wound with the bolt embedded in it, and Ros whimpered in shock, still grimacing and wiggling around. She clenched her teeth tighter, breathing deeply and loudly. Each beat of her heart seemed to echo in her pierced leg, provoking jolts of sharp pain.  
  
Whimpering, Ros looked up and stared in fear and disbelief at the King standing still in the center of the bedroom with the weapon in his hand. Something in the look in his eyes was deeply disturbing; even with the sharp pain clouding most of Ros’ mind, it didn’t take her long to remember this look. It was the look he had when she had been whipping Daisy, the look he had when the poor girl had been screaming her lungs out, her tender flesh being scarred and torn. With the same look, Joffrey was observing her now; an odd mix of curiosity and excitement.  
  
Ros groaned, twisting her leg slightly in an attempt to ease the pain. Joffrey didn’t seem to be able to look away. He took a step towards her, and Ros inhaled sharply, instinctively leaning back further onto the edge of the bed, feeling her chin tremble in fear. Step by step, Joffrey kept slowly approaching her, until only a couple feet separated them. Accidentally locking eyes with him, Ros immediately looked away, still wincing and grimacing from the pain in her leg. Oddly, Joffrey’s proximity felt even more unbearable than the projectile stuck in her flesh.  
  
“Does it hurt… much?” Joffrey asked quietly, looking down at Ros’ bare leg, with thin streams of blood trickling down her pale skin. Ros remained silent, closing her eyes to fight tears away. ‘Does it hurt’… Gods, he had the nerve to ask. Her deep breaths through clenched teeth almost sounded like angry hissing.  
  
“Does? It? Hurt?!” Joffrey grabbed Ros by the jaw, and she gasped, opening her eyes. The boy stood face to face with her now, staring her in the eye. Ros couldn’t help but look back at him with hatred painted on her face.  
  
Joffrey’s fingers clenched her jaw tighter. “It does,” Ros replied grumpily. “It does, Your Grace.” As soon as Joffrey let go of her, she immediately turned away, staring at the two bolts embedded in the bedpost to the right.  
  
“Good,” the King said quietly and stepped back. He turned around to walk back towards the table with the bucket with bolts on top of it; Ros remained frozen, feeling tears start to well up in her eyes again.  
  
“Do you know the difference a bolt can make?” Joffrey asked casually, as if there wasn’t one already sticking out of Ros’ leg. He grabbed the lever from the table, attached it to the crossbow frame and pulled it slowly. “Answer me!” he demanded, and Ros sobbed, looking at him.  
  
“I don’t know, Your Grace,” she spoke quietly.  
  
Joffrey scoffed and dropped the lever back onto the table with a clang. “Some of them provide great accuracy,” he lectured, “like the ones you’ve already seen. They’re feathered. They can fly half a field away and still hit where you aimed. But they’re light,” Joffrey reached into the bucket with bolts and pulled out a non-feathered one. “Look at that bedpost, they can’t even pierce wood. Useless against anything harder than… flesh,” he pointed at Ros’ leg with the bolt still in his hand. The girl whimpered quietly, looking at him in fear. “Now, these ones… They don’t have fletching, they’re not as accurate, but it matters not if you’re close to your target. They’re heavy, though,” he weighed the bolt in his hand before placing it into the groove. “Much heavier than those ones. They’ll penetrate wood… Armor, maybe. Bone.”  
  
Joffrey suddenly raised the crossbow up, aiming it at Ros again. The girl barely had any time to anticipate the shot before the King pulled the trigger and the featherless bolt darted forward, smashing precisely into Ros’ right knee.  
  
As pain exploded in her leg once again, her loud, heartfelt scream echoed around the room, scaring away the birds perched on the trees near the balcony. Howling, Ros arched her back in an awkward attempt to remove any pressure from her shattered knee; the slightest move of her leg resulted in awful, excruciating pain from the pieces of the fractured joint grinding against each other and against the shaft of the bolt sitting deep in her knee. A terrible cramp shook her body when she accidentally put some weight onto her right leg amidst all the squirming. Immediately dropping down onto the edge of the bed and shivering from the pain, Ros saw stars float in front of her eyes and the colors of the room start fading to black. Only by a sheer miracle, it seemed, did she manage to hold onto her consciousness; she closed her eyes, but that did little to stop the tears of pain from streaming down her cheeks. The wound from the first bolt almost seemed to cease to exist, the sensation of it numbed greatly in comparison to the staggering pain in her destroyed knee.  
  
It felt like a whole minute of fighting with the pain before Ros found the courage to look up again, finding Joffrey standing in the same pose, staring at her. He had the same mesmerized look on his face, his mouth just slightly ajar as he was watching her squirm and moan in front of him. The crossbow in his hands was loaded with a red-feathered bolt. As soon as they made eye contact again, Joffrey grinned, lifting the weapon up and aiming it at the girl.  
  
“Your Grace, no!”  
  
The desperate plea escaped her lips just moments before his finger pulled the trigger. Ros twitched, instinctively trying to move out of harm’s way, immediately feeling something grind awfully painfully in her right knee. A moment later, the bolt smashed into the bedpost by the pillow on the far right side of the bed behind her. The girl howled as the pain from the sudden movement shot through her knee again; as soon as she managed to regain her balance, she glanced back anxiously, seeing the bolt in the wooden bedpost.  
  
When she turned back around to face Joffrey, the young King was outright grinning, looking at her. Ros shuddered, watching him step back to the bucket and pull out a non-fletched bolt. “Your Grace,” she pleaded as he coldly pulled the string of the crossbow. “Please, Your Grace, _please_ ,” she sobbed. Joffrey seemed to be absolutely unfazed by her voice. “It _does_ hurt awfully, if that’s what you wanted, yes, Your Grace, it does!” Ros sobbed loudly again and swallowed salty tears that were streaming down her face. Joffrey calmly placed the heavy bolt into the groove of the crossbow and turned to face Ros again, looking at her for a few seconds before taking aim. Ros inhaled sharply, holding her breath and looking to the side. The few seconds of waiting for the shot seemed to take forever, every inch of her barely dressed body trembling in anticipation of being pierced by the bolt.  
  
The all-too-familiar sound of the released string finally broke the electrified silence, and Ros screamed from the horrible pain that pierced her right arm, halfway between the armpit and the elbow, scarily close to her head. She wiggled and thrashed around, her pathetic screams filling the air; the more she moved, hanging from the baldaquin frame, the more weight was put on her pierced arm, causing more pain in return. It wasn’t until she finally managed to relax both of her arms for a brief moment that she leaned onto the side of the bed, moving pressure and tension away from the terribly burning muscle. Looking to the right, Ros could hardly see the bolt in her arm; it was a blurry image from all the tears welling up in her eyes, and she couldn’t help but think it was for the better. It was as if her own tears were protecting her from seeing the horrible picture in all its twisted glory, she thought.  
  
Once the worst of the pain seemed to have finally subdued, she tried to cautiously pull herself up a little with her left arm. Suddenly, she felt the rope slip down an inch or two from the frame and gasped loudly, almost losing her balance. As much as she hated being tied up to make a better target, she was better off tied than free, she realized. There was no way that falling down to the floor would end well in her state.  
  
Feeling blood flowing down her arm from the terribly aching wound, Ros stared in fear at Joffrey as he put the crossbow down onto the table and approached her, looking at her with seemingly genuine interest. Creepily silent, he tilted his head to the side slightly, observing the bolt in her arm. With Joffrey so unnervingly close to her once again, Ros couldn’t help but feel her chin starting to tremble in fear again, looking at him through her tears.  
  
Without saying a word, the boy King bent down slightly in front of Ros and reached for the bolt sticking out of her knee. As Joffrey’s fingers touched the shaft, Ros inhaled sharply, shuddering from the sensation it produced, and closed her eyes. “I _beg_ you,” she wept, her voice breaking. It was becoming awfully clear what sort of a present she was – a mere toy for inflicting pain; excruciating, unbearable pain. She hissed as Joffrey’s hand let go of the shaft and instead touched her right thigh gently. Slowly, the King moved his hand up, ending up lifting what little cover her hips had left and cupping her soft buttock. By now, Joffrey was standing just a breath away from her; his unexpectedly gentle and tender touch could perhaps even be interpreted as caring and pleasant – if it wasn’t for the three crossbow bolts that were sticking out of Ros’ body, and for the fact that it was him who had put them into her. When Joffrey looked at her face, Ros had nothing to give him back but a grimace of repulsion and fear. The mesmerized, entranced expression on Joffrey’s face immediately faded – his hand moved from her buttock down, and he leaned down in front of Ros again, grabbing the shaft of the bolt sticking out of her knee.  
  
He jerked it up, and all the intention of sucking it up and enduring it silently left Ros’ mind in the blink of an eye. Her spine arched, her whole body shuddered and a wild scream escaped her mouth, her leg twitching from the horrible pain that pierced her shattered knee. Joffrey started to slowly twist the bolt in the wound, and a sickening crunching sound came from inside the joint, with Ros’ screams immediately reaching a new level in volume. She thrashed and kicked, her body fighting against the source of such overwhelming pain almost instinctively, her mind incapable of any conscious reaction.  
  
Suddenly, sounds of quiet rustling and creaking came from above, and the rope thrown over the baldaquin frame slipped out of the knot. Startled, Joffrey jumped back, immediately letting go of the bolt in the girl’s leg and watching her collapse down onto her knees. Her right knee crunched as the bolt sticking out of it collided with the floor; an inarticulate loud moan escaped Ros’ lips but faded almost instantly as her body suddenly went limp and she crashed down onto the floor onto her side, coming to rest in an awkward pose and not moving.


	5. IV

## 

**IV**

For a few seconds, Joffrey stood frozen in the same startled pose in front of the whore, his breath shallow and his eyes wide open. He finally blinked and exhaled loudly, suddenly feeling his heart racing in his chest. Looking at the girl, he took a cautious step towards her and then crouched down next to her, observing her body attentively. Her chest was rising and falling steadily, and Joffrey let out a quiet sigh of relief, his eyes then moving to her right knee that seemed to be completely dislocated, an unbent featherless bolt sticking out of it. It appeared that so much pain at once had been too much for this whore to handle, Joffrey concluded. It was almost a shame.  
  
He stood up and started walking around the room again, breathing heavily and trying to calm down, glancing at the unconscious girl every now and then. An unusual feeling was growing inside him, a rush that was almost making his head spin, but he had trouble pinpointing what it was exactly. This whole experiment so far had been far more exciting than all of his expectations, save for this last inconvenience. Gods, who would have thought her screams would sound so sweet up close?  
  
Abandoning his circular movement around the room, he headed for the door and banged on it impatiently. A moment later, the door opened, and Meryn Trant peeked inside with a concerned look on his face. “You haven’t tied her well,” Joffrey complained and stepped back. “Have a look at this,” he pointed at the bed with his hand, and after a moment of hesitation Trant stepped inside, followed by the other guard. “Fix it,” Joffrey commanded nervously and walked back to his seat. “Here. Use this,” he unbuckled a thin leather belt that girdled the waist of his costume and threw it to Meryn.  
  
When the second guard lifted the whore up from the floor, she moaned, still unconscious, her head hanging freely. Trant quickly tied the belt around her wrists and grunted, trying to hold her high enough to throw the belt over the baldaquin frame. “Your Grace,” he said, turning to face Joffrey after a few unsuccessful attempts.  
  
“Yes, yes.” Joffrey waved his hand, watching them. “Wake her up.”  
  
Turning back to the unconscious girl held by the second guard, Meryn slapped her face lightly, and her head jerked to the side limply. After another slap, the whore moaned, still unconscious, wincing weakly and bringing her eyebrows together. Joffrey reached for the jug standing on the table and poured some wine into the cup, then walked towards the bed. “Open her mouth,” he commanded quietly. Joffrey brought the cup to the redhead’s lips and poured the drink into her mouth, and a few moments later she gulped instinctively and spat the wine, coughing frantically and blinking, regaining her consciousness. A second or two later, the sensations in her body seemed to have finally kicked in as she suddenly cried out loudly in pain, having absent-mindedly shifted some weight onto her destroyed leg. The guards immediately held her tightly; the girl thrashed around as much as she could, looking in fear at Joffrey standing in front of her.  
  
“Ser Meryn, please continue,” Joffrey said quietly, wiped his face from the spat wine and walked back to his seat, while the knights behind his back yanked her hands up to the baldaquin frame.  
  
“No!” Her desperate cry reached Joffrey’s ears, and he grinned, facing away from her and looking into the darkness beyond the balcony of the room. “Let me go, you…” Sounds of struggle were heard behind his back. “Your Grace!” The girl’s protest turned into a plea. “What have I done to you… Your Grace!”  
  
Joffrey scoffed and turned to the table to pick up the crossbow. “No!” the whore cried out, terror heard clearly in her voice. “Why are you doing this?!” He had never thought a scream could have _so much_ fear seeping through it. “D-don’t leave me, please,” the screams from the bed suddenly turned into frightened pleading, and Joffrey turned to look, intrigued. The whore’s hands were now tied reliably to the baldaquin frame with the leather belt, and the two guards were heading to the door. “Don’t leave me with him!”  
  
The knights didn’t react, stepping out of the bedroom and closing the door behind them with a thump. The girl gasped loudly and stared at Joffrey like cornered game. The King couldn’t help but smile, looking back at her. Pressing her body against the side of the bed, she was visibly shaking. Joffrey reached to the bucket to grab a red-feathered bolt, and she inhaled sharply, watching him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked again, almost whispering this time, tears streaming down her face. Joffrey froze for a moment, feeling a shiver run down his spine. There was something very special about all this, something deeply exciting. It was as if there was something in the air of the darkened room, something responsible for the almost euphoric, thrilling vibe that he was feeling. Not a single one of all the tortures and executions carried out in accordance with his orders had produced a feeling like this.  
  
Listening to the redhead’s sobs, Joffrey loaded the crossbow absent-mindedly. Could it be because this was a tender girl instead of some knight or soldier? He raised the weapon up and pointed it at her, and the whore bit her lip, whimpering and closing her eyes in anticipation of the shot. It could very well be, Joffrey admitted. There she was, half-naked, trembling in fear, her tunic barely covering her body. The thought of a bolt piercing her flesh was so different from a thought of a soldier experiencing the same fate. A knight’s or a traitor’s death was functional, a necessary evil that had to be done; a means to instill fear in others and make them obey. Hers, though… It would be a beautiful death, Joffrey was certain.  
  
The bolt ripped through the air with a whizzing sound, and the girl shrieked when it smashed into the rug hanging on the wall behind her, missing her body by a few inches. She shuddered when she looked back at it; turning around to face Joffrey again, she suddenly broke down in tears completely, sobbing loudly and letting tears flow freely down her cheeks. Unable to take his eyes off her, Joffrey reached blindly to the lever lying on the table and attached it to the crossbow. It felt so intoxicatingly new… It was one thing to ask Ser Ilyn Payne to torture or execute someone. As it was turning out, doing it personally was something else entirely. Perhaps _this_ was actually the reason it felt so exciting, Joffrey considered. He dropped the lever back onto the table with a clang and reached to the bucket to take a red-feathered bolt from it.  
  
He couldn’t help but think back to that day a couple moons ago, that one time when Margaery Tyrell, his beautiful bride-to-be, had visited him here in his bedroom. The interest she had taken in this very weapon, the excitement she had shown when he had demonstrated it to her… Who would have thought she had such passion for deadly things like this? Joffrey placed the bolt into the groove running along the crossbow frame and turned to the redhead. His thoughts wandered back to the memory of that day again, to that moment of Margaery holding the crossbow and him holding her in his embrace. Joffrey licked his lips nervously. Gods, if only Margaery would stand with him here right now. She would aim at this whimpering whore and he would guide her, supporting her arms.  
  
Perhaps that traitorous cunt Sansa Stark would be tied to his bed instead. He had always wanted to know what was under those fancy dresses of hers…  
  
Joffrey exhaled loudly, taking aim at the girl. It was all a very tempting thought… But he couldn’t afford that now. Someday, perhaps – but not today. When Margaery would be in the room with him, he would have to look confident, feel confident, be confident. He would be the one to guide her – and thus, he had to practice. And then, when the time would come, he would already be used to this intoxicating feeling, and he would be the support Margaery would need. But… what was the harm in some imagination right now, Joffrey reasoned?  
  
Margaery and he would stand right here, a few steps away from the girl bound to his bed. His beloved would hold the weapon just the way he was holding it now, wearing that gorgeous high-collared blue dress with yellow streaks. He would embrace her softly by the waist with his right arm, his left hand supporting her left arm. “Is this where you want me to shoot her, my love?” Margaery would ask quietly with a smile, aiming straight at the girl’s soft stomach, barely covered by the fabric of the see-through tunic. Yes, she would definitely say ‘my love’ instead of ‘Your Grace’, Joffrey felt. He wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.  
  
“I want to make it painful,” he would answer just as quietly, whispering in her ear. “Very painful.”  
  
“Oh, I know just the spot,” Margaery would purr in reply and lower the crossbow, pointing it slightly above the triangle at the girl’s crotch…


	6. V

## 

**V**

Joffrey’s finger pulled the trigger, and the tightly drawn string slid along the frame of the crossbow, sending the bolt into its short flight. With a quiet wet sound, the bolt’s metal tip plunged into Ros’ tender flesh, giving her a push, and the girl’s eyes flew wide open as an excruciating, unfathomable pain shot through her lower belly. Ros doubled over as much as the belt up above allowed her and let out a painfully loud cry, crossing her legs in a futile attempt to ease the overwhelming pain burning in her hips. The pain in her right arm and in her leg ceased to exist, it seemed to her; even the torturous sensation in her shattered knee was lost, all of them making room in her mind for the agonizing feeling low in her stomach. Ros was screaming her lungs out, shaking in pain, yet she couldn’t hear her own voice. Her eyes were wide open, but for her, the room around her stopped existing. All but one of the sensations faded, leaving her alone with the maddening feeling of the bolt’s feathered shaft embedded deep in her body, sticking out of her lower stomach.  
  
Hanging from the belt by her arms, Ros was bawling wildly, her mind balancing on the verge of unconsciousness. Every hectic breath she was taking was echoing in the wound as her stomach was moving, and soon her voice turned raspy, long screams of pain becoming dry creaks coming out of her throat. For a brief moment, she felt her mind slip into blackness, only to be woken up by the very same pain a moment later. There was another sensation now, Ros felt… A feeling of blood streaming down her skin, smearing her tunic and welling up at the triangle of her crotch by her tightly crossed legs, then streaming down her inner thighs. A nauseatingly sticky, warm feeling of her life leaking out of her body.  
  
This awfully sobering thought seemed to be the one that finally started to guide her mind back to reality amid the all-enveloping feeling of pain. Still whimpering with her hoarse throat, Ros moved her hips back, further onto the edge of the bed – and found herself unable to hold back one more scream, feeling the tip of the bolt sticking out of her buttock press against the soft covers, making the shaft inside her body move and sending a new jolt of pain through her hips. She immediately leaned forward, by a sheer miracle managing to bring herself into a pose that wasn’t causing any more grinding or moving of any of the arrows she was stuffed with. Ros licked her trembling lips, tasting the salty tears streaming down her face, and felt blood seeping out of the tooth-shaped indents on her lower lip. Trying her best to make her breaths as shallow as possible since every one of them was resonating sharply in her stomach, and still whimpering from the pain, she looked down, the next moment suddenly feeling terribly lightheaded and immediately looking away. The sheer sight of the bolt sticking out of her hips, even if out of focus from all the tears welling up in her eyes, was enough for the pain to be perceived as twice as intense, making her whole body shudder.  
  
And, of course, there was Joffrey… There was nothing that Ros wanted more than to never see the monster again. The pain was truly awful – but the worst part was the knowledge that the sadist she was locked in the room with was still there and in complete control. Ros shuddered, feeling his presence right in front of her. There he was, standing a foot or two away. She’d die before looking him in the eye, she thought.  
  
Joffrey’s hand reached for the fletching of the bolt, and Ros barely contained a cry when he grabbed it, instead hissing loudly through her clenched teeth. He was waiting for her to beg him, Ros knew it. She wouldn’t give him that pleasure.  
  
The King pushed the bolt further into the wound, and all the thoughts in her mind shattered into pieces, flashes of blinding pain filling her head instead. Clenching her teeth so hard that one of them suddenly cracked in her mouth, Ros squealed loudly, her toes curling and her fingernails digging into the leather belt tying her to the baldaquin frame. The bolt in her body started moving back out, guided by Joffrey’s hand, and one more heartfelt scream escaped her lungs, her whole body shaking in convulsions and fighting back against the cause of the mind-boggling pain. “Let me go!” her hysterical shriek resounded across the room. “Let me go!”  
  
Ros hadn’t heard Joffrey step away from her, and she hadn’t seen him walk back to his seat; the only indication that her desperate plea had had any effect was the sudden release of the pressure on the bolt embedded in her body. Very cautiously leaning back against the bedside and breathing carefully with her chest, Ros looked up at her arms and broke down in tears, a bitter realization finally hitting her. Whatever insanity was driving Joffrey, whatever tortures she had yet to endure from him, one thing suddenly became awfully clear. No maester in the world could help her escape this dreaded room alive.  
  
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked again and sobbed, closing her eyes. Joffrey was walking in circles around the room again – Ros could hear his boots rustling against the floor. Her hips and stomach felt like they were on fire, each breath resounding low in her belly with the sharpest pain she had ever felt. “Why?” Measured sounds of footsteps were the only thing she could hear in response. Her closed eyes did little to stop salty tears from flowing freely down her cheeks. The mechanical sounds of the crossbow string being pulled reached her ears, and Ros wept louder, still keeping her eyes tightly shut. Chest? Stomach? What could possibly be more painful than the wounds he had already inflicted, Ros wondered bitterly?  
  
The bolt darted towards her with a harsh sound, and Ros bellowed in pain as the projectile ripped the tendons in her right arm halfway between her wrist and her elbow, getting stuck in her flesh again. The girl thrashed around, unable to hold still as a terrible cramp spread through her arm; the feeling of the leather belt digging into her wrist became outright unbearable as her right hand was twitching in the tight knot up above. Fingernails on her left hand dug into the leather in a semi-conscious attempt to release the pressure put on her right arm; with each deep breath and each cry of pain that escaped Ros’ lips, the molten hot fire deep in her stomach burned brighter, its flames licking the tender flesh inside her. Wiggling from the sharpest pain that seemed to take over her whole body, howling and twitching from cramps that were moving down her arm, Ros suddenly had a brief thought flash in her head that she’d rather just die than endure this torture anymore. Fingers of her left hand finally gripped the leather of the belt tightly, and Ros exhaled sharply, still whimpering from the pain, but finally managing to rest her buttocks firmly on the edge of the bed again and put at least some pressure away from the pierced muscles of her right arm.  
  
She’d rather die… A neverending stream of tears was flowing out of her eyes as she was leaning on the bed, stuffed with crossbow bolts and lamenting her situation. The pain was absolutely mind-boggling; it was with genuine surprise that Ros found herself still capable of somewhat coherent thoughts. Perhaps it was her mind’s odd way of protecting her from going insane from the pain, she thought. And yet, the pain was still there… It pulsated in her wounds, it traveled along her veins, it was seeping into her mind, blinding her, making her want to scream with every breath she was taking and desperately seek release. Any release would do. The same bitter thought slithered into her mind again and, oddly, didn’t cause any protest. If anything, Ros found herself to be accepting it with tears in her eyes. She’d rather die than endure all this pain. The realization didn’t come as a shock; Ros sobbed loudly, finding this idea morbidly reasonable. And the worst thing of all… She felt that it was a comforting one. Suddenly, death felt like freedom. And wasn’t freedom from this pain all that she had left to hope for?  
  
She opened her eyes and stared at the floor of the bedroom in front of her, tears obscuring her vision. Spying on Baelish for Varys was not all that big of a mistake, in retrospect, even if it was worse than some others. Coming to King’s Landing was the biggest and the most terrible of them all, Ros admitted. It had brought her nothing but trouble and pain. That day when she and Daisy had come into this dreaded room, that other day when the Queen had her locked in a dark dungeon for reasons she never truly found out… And finally, this day, when the boy King didn’t even have the courage to commit all these atrocities without tying her. And why?! The intrusive question couldn’t leave her mind, tormenting her just like any of these bolts sticking out of her flesh. If only this had a reason, any twisted reason, Ros thought bitterly. It would give at least some sense and meaning to her inevitable end.  
  
“Why?” she whispered quietly, looking up at Joffrey. “Your… Your Grace,” she winced involuntarily as she pronounced his title. “Please. Please, Your Grace,” she sobbed, staring at him. “Don’t I deserve to know?”  
  
Joffrey tilted his head sideways, observing her with interest. After a few seconds, he shrugged and reached for the lever, then attached it to the crossbow. His hands were shaking nervously as was loading the weapon – Ros didn’t even have to blink her tears away to see that. “Lord Baelish must have found you… expendable,” Joffrey made sure to stress the word, and Ros felt her heart sink in her chest. It was an odd reaction, it occurred to her. Joffrey said nothing new; she had realized this a long time ago… Yet somehow, coming out of Joffrey’s mouth, the words sounded morbidly final.  
  
The King lifted the weapon up, and Ros closed her eyes, trembling in anticipation. A few moments ago she could have sworn she was ready for it, accepting it, yet with the crossbow pointed at her, all the courage immediately left her. There seemed to be no way to look in the eyes of death bravely, Ros realized. A quiet whimper escaped her lips after a few seconds of tense silence in the room – and, almost immediately after that, the string of the crossbow sent the feathered bolt into flight, and it whizzed past Ros’ body, slamming hard into the far right bedpost behind her with a loud thud.  
  
Ros flinched, opening her eyes and staring at Joffrey in disbelief. As always, the King was smiling… This time, it was something other than that look of fascination and excitement that Ros had learned to despise. It was satisfaction. A twisted, sadistic satisfaction of a boy picking the wings off flies and looking at their reaction. Joffrey knew, Ros realized. He knew exactly what thoughts were running through her head. Killing her? Ros couldn’t hold back a loud sob as she realized what a fool she had been to think that Joffrey was going to give her that luxury. He would keep her alive with all this terrible pain in her body and these terrible thoughts in her head, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it. She clenched her jaws tightly to keep herself from bursting out in tears completely. If he wasn’t going to give her what she craved, she sure as hell wasn’t going to give him what he wanted to see.  
  
“Where are you from?” Joffrey asked casually, reaching to the table for the lever.  
  
“Dorne… Your Grace,” Ros spoke quietly. Admitting that she was from the rebellious North would just give him a legitimate justification for all of this, she thought. Home… Now that Joffrey brought that up, her thoughts traveled home, carrying her far away from this dark room and from this pain. The village she had grown up in, those high, centuries-old stone walls of Winterfell in the distance… Even that bawdy house she used to work in – all of this felt so dear… and so far away.  
  
She never should have left it behind.  
  
“Dorne?!” Joffrey exclaimed in surprise, putting the feathered bolt into the groove. “That’s… I’d never think of that,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen a red-haired Dornish,” he grinned. Ros barely held back a bitter chuckle, despite the situation. Joffrey held the crossbow up, and Ros inhaled, looking at the weapon pointing at her and fighting the urge to look away. If this, by some miracle, was the one bolt that would take her life at last, she wanted to see it fly towards her, she finally decided.  
  
“I want you to choose,” Joffrey broke the silence, still aiming at the girl. “Your left arm, or your left leg.”  
  
Ros shuddered, a shiver running down her spine. Gods, what a twisted inventive young mind… She closed her eyes and gulped, remaining silent. Arm, leg… Did it even matter anymore? Ros wasn’t even sure she would feel a difference now. Looking at Joffrey, she kept her lips sealed, feeling her chin trembling.  
  
“I said, choose!” the King yelled, and Ros shuddered, staring at the loaded weapon in his hands. “Choose, or I’ll choose your head!”  
  
Ros didn’t make a sound, but the light of hope in her eyes that had faded a long time ago shone brighter. ‘Choose my head, boy,’ she thought, looking at Joffrey.  
  
“Your left arm, or your left leg,” he repeated.  
  
‘My head. Please,’ Ros barely managed not to say it out loud. Joffrey gripped the frame of the crossbow with his hands tighter impatiently, looking at her. Ros blinked, trying to see him clearly. The tears in her eyes were making it hard to see where the weapon was pointing.  
  
Suddenly, the young King’s finger jerked the trigger, and the feathered bolt darted towards the bed, smashing into the wooden bedpost to the left from Ros and making her flinch and gasp loudly. “You had to choose!” Joffrey yelled in frustration, and Ros felt tears starting to pour down her cheeks again, sobbing. So much for thinking that she had cried all of them out already… “You…” Joffrey hissed through his teeth and stammered for a moment, as if he realized something. “You disobeyed an order from your King!” he huffed, furious, starting to wind up circles around the room again in front of her with the crossbow in his hands. “Do you know the punishment for that?” He walked towards the table and reached for the lever again.  
  
Ros inhaled loudly, wincing from the pain in her stomach. All she wanted was a reason… and there was none. There was no reason at all for all this madness, no answer for the ‘Why?’ that tormented her, there was nothing but the meaningless entertainment for the King. Gods, how she had hoped there would be something… A crime she would have had committed unknowingly, some plotting that she would have been wrongfully accused of… but not this! Not this wicked bloodlust of a boy trying so hard to come up with an excuse for stuffing her full of crossbow bolts.  
  
Ros looked at him again. Joffrey was standing in front of her, loading the weapon. She blinked a few times to see him clearly. Joffrey lifted the crossbow again, aiming at her, and she stared back at him, wondering bitterly whether he was planning to kill her tonight at all. If only there was a way to make him, if only there was a way to guide his aim straight into her head or heart, Ros thought. What twisted thinking guided his hands, what could he possibly see in her suffering? Ros squinted her eyes, looking at Joffrey wrapped in his fancy embroidered costume. There was something peculiar, something odd about the way he was standing, about the way the fabric was clinging to his hips… Ros gulped, suddenly realizing what it was, and looked into his eyes with a disgusted expression on her face, a sickening feeling creeping up on her.  
  
How could she not have noticed that before?  
  
“Y-you monster,” she whispered, staring at him in disbelief, her lips shaking. Everything fell into place… But it was the truth that Ros immediately wished she had never uncovered. And yet, she should have realized it a long time ago, she scolded herself. Granted, during her time in Littlefinger’s pleasure house she had met people who loved being in control and causing pain. Those people may have been rough and fairly violent at times, but in the end, all they truly wanted was to screw her, not harm her. Joffrey, however… Ros remembered his touch on her thigh; a surprisingly gentle, true, yet such a very awkward touch. Joffrey did not desire her body in the slightest, she realized. She could spread her legs for him, and he would be unfazed. Her blood and her screams, on the other hand…  
  
“What is that?” Joffrey asked, tilting his head. “I didn’t hear you.”  
  
Ros closed her eyes, slowly exhaling. Joffrey wouldn’t just end her life. He would torture her for hours on end, bolt by bolt, slowly draining life and sanity out of her… and, worse yet, getting off on it.  
  
Unless…  
  
“You are a monster,” Ros hissed louder through her teeth, shivering and closing her eyes. “A sick _fuck_ who…”  
  
A bolt smashed into the bedpost to the right from her, and the loud thud made her gasp and flinch, squirming from the pain that the sudden movement produced. Her eyes flew open; Joffrey was impatiently loading the crossbow with the lever again. “Sorry, you were saying?” he grinned, looking at her, and reached to the bucket. Ros whimpered quietly, hesitating. It was one thing to succumb meekly to your fate and let the torturer have his fun… it was something else to seal your fate with your own words.  
  
“You’re a sadistic, twisted, sick fuck of a bastard!” she shouted in her hoarse voice, unable to hold back a pathetic whimper of pain immediately afterwards. Joffrey froze for a moment with a bolt in his hand, staring at her. Ros held his gaze. Without a word, Joffrey placed the bolt into the groove and lifted the weapon up, taking a step towards Ros and aiming at her. His face conveyed an entirely different emotion now, Ros noticed; even the earlier frustration at her ‘disobeying his order’ hadn’t produced such an expression of barely contained rage as his face was showing right now.  
  
Still silent, Joffrey reached for the trigger. The tightly drawn string sent the bolt towards its target, and a moment later Ros screamed as the projectile pierced her left arm close to the elbow, severing tendons and getting stuck deep in her flesh. She shook from the terrible pain, feeling her arm twitching in a cramp; suddenly, she felt that she was sliding down from the edge of Joffrey’s bed, the blood-soaked fabric of the tunic under her hips becoming awfully slippery – and her arms, both stuffed with bolts, couldn’t hold her weight anymore. Ros made a futile attempt to press her left foot against the floor to stop sliding down from the bed, but it was in vain – her buttocks slipped off the edge, and the girl screamed with all her might, feeling a fierce tug on her destroyed arms up above as she was hanging freely from the leather belt now, combined with the god-awful feeling of the tip of the bolt protruding from her buttock scraping against the side of the bed. Both of her legs, the injured and the unharmed, were sliding across the floor desperately as she fought against the horrible pain, writhing around by the side of the King’s bed and howling wildly.  
  
She had barely noticed Joffrey putting the crossbow down onto the table and walking towards her. She only truly felt his presence next to her when he suddenly reached to her neck and squeezed her throat, his fingers pressing hard into her delicate skin. With a grunt, Joffrey pulled her up by the neck, and Ros gagged, fighting for air and staring up at him with despise. As soon as her hips were above the edge of the bed, though, the King let go, and the girl wheezed, immediately gulping for air and the next moment grimacing with a loud moan from the pain that shot through her belly. Sitting on the side of the bed and stretching her left leg out to prevent sliding back down as her arms were in no state to support her, Ros was breathing heavily with her chest, whimpering on every breath and staring at Joffrey standing in front of her.  
  
Looking her in the eye, Joffrey took one more step closer, and his right hip pressed against the fletching of the bolt sticking out of her hips, pushing it deeper into her flesh. Ros couldn’t help but scream in his face, tears immediately streaming from her eyes again as she felt the shaft moving deep inside her. Joffrey kept staring at her, rage seeping out of his eyes. “What did you call me?” he asked quietly, and Ros sobbed, fighting the tears choking her and looking up at him. There was no way back.  
  
“A bastard,” she hissed back with hatred after a short pause, staring into the King’s eyes. “I have fucked scum from all over the North and I’ve fucked more noble perverts from this shithole you call King’s Landing than there are days you have lived,” a triumphant grin appeared on Ros’ weary face, “and you are the most disgusting, twisted, fucked in the head bastard in all Seven Kingdoms. Oh, if only they had known… perhaps they would have saved the Mad King title for you!”  
  
Joffrey exhaled loudly in her tear-stained face, staring at her. Even in the dim light of the chandeliers in the room Ros could see veins appear on his forehead; his nostrils opened wider as he breathed heavily, his hand moving along her shoulder to her neck again. Halfway along her collarbone it stopped, though, as Joffrey bit his lip, staring into her eyes for a moment then looking down, focusing on the bolt sticking out of her hips.  
  
Joffrey’s hand reached down and grabbed the shaft of the projectile, and the girl hissed loudly in his face, unable to keep quiet as a jolt of pain shot through her hips. Without saying a word, the King clenched the bolt tighter and pushed it deeper into Ros. A sharp scream escaped her lips as her whole body arched unnaturally, cold sweat of pain running down her spine. Joffrey jerked the bolt back towards himself, and for a brief moment, Ros felt as if her heart stopped beating as a terrible, unthinkable pain ran through her body. The metal tip of the bolt sticking out of her buttock disappeared inside the exit wound as it was pulled back, ripping through her flesh with the tiny sharp hooks on its backside.  
  
Looking her in the face, Joffrey licked his lips and thrust the bolt deeper into her again, then immediately pulled it towards himself – and plunged it further into her flesh once more, beginning to rhythmically pound her hips with the projectile… And for Ros, the whole world faded away. All that was left was Joffrey’s heavy breath in front of her and flashes of inhuman, unimaginable pain with every thrust of the bolt tearing through her. Sharp metal edges and splinters of wood were digging into her tender flesh and ripping it apart as the bolt was penetrating her womb in unthinkable, morbid fashion with squishy wet sounds. Amid all the blinding pain that absorbed her, Ros could barely feel blood pouring out of both sides of the gruesome wound and from between her thighs, writhing around in agony and letting out absolutely inhuman, blood-curdling screams of pain. By now, no coherent thoughts were left in her head; only the instinctive, animalistic reactions to being sawn alive with a sharp crossbow bolt. But soon enough, even the wild screams faded. Ros was opening her mouth soundlessly, staring past Joffrey’s face and shuddering with every movement of the bolt deep inside her, quiet dry creaks sometimes escaping her lips. The leather belt that was tying her to the baldaquin frame had fresh, deep nail marks all over it. Her teary eyes were showing no other emotion but the purest pain.


	7. VI

## 

**VI**

… Ros didn’t know how much time had passed before eventually, one by one, her sensations started to slowly return to her. She didn’t even know for how long Joffrey had been penetrating her with the bolt – she had no memory left of it except for bright flashes of separate moments. Joffrey squeezing her shoulder. Joffrey grabbing the bolt. A blinding flash of pain. His heavy breath. Metal cutting through her flesh. His hateful eyes. A flow of blood. Dryness in her throat. Her heart skipping a beat. Blood. So much pain. So much blood.  
  
A quiet clank was a sound that came from reality rather than recollections, though. Ros felt like she couldn’t even open her eyes without wanting to scream her lungs out. Squinting, she stared past the veil of tears at the source of the sound. Joffrey was sitting in his seat comfortably, a cup of wine in his hand and a loaded crossbow in his lap. Oddly, Ros felt no emotion at this sight; all of it had been drained out of her along with all the blood and replaced with the pain, it felt to her. If anything, she couldn’t help but scoff bitterly at her situation. So much for tempting death.  
  
“You’re from the North, aren’t you?” Joffrey questioned calmly and took a sip from the cup. “How did you put this… ‘I have fucked scum from all over the North’, I believe?”  
  
Ros stared down at the floor between them. “Yes,” she spoke quietly, hearing her voice creak and feeling her throat hurt from such a simple word. “I am.”  
  
Joffrey nodded with a satisfied look. “I thought so. Lying Northern whore, with your poisonous rumors,” he smacked his lips and put the cup down onto the tabletop, then gripped the handle of his crossbow and stood up from his seat. “For all the crimes you have committed, I, Joffrey of the House Baratheon, the First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, hereby sentence you to die.”  
  
Ros pursed her lips. As far as pain and tortures went, she was almost ready for more of them with an odd sense of fatalism now, she felt. After all that had happened, there was no such pain that could frighten her anymore, it seemed to her. But all of these Joffrey’s theatrics that accompanied it, though… Disgusting excuses of a cowardly boy who wasn’t even willing to admit that he was doing all this for the pleasure of his flesh. The real torture. But if it was easier for Joffrey to twist things this way, it suddenly occurred to her, perhaps it would be easier for her as well? The whole life is a theater, she reasoned. Everyone acts and lies and everyone pretends to believe. Perhaps there was nothing wrong in pretending to believe in just one more lie, compared to a lifetime of them?  
  
“I will execute you personally,” Joffrey continued, his voice breaking for a moment. “Ask for forgiveness for your words, and it will be a good death. I promise,” he added after a short pause in an unusually soft tone. “If you don’t,” he raised his voice again, “I will show you no mercy, as a traitor like you deserves.”  
  
Ros exhaled quietly, still staring at the floor. Treason. There it was. A pitiful, miserable excuse… And yet, an excuse she was willing to – wanting to – accept. After all this pain, after all these tortures there was nothing that she wanted anymore but to have a justification, and this one sounded so tempting. The real, sickening truth behind all these atrocities was too awful, too unbearable to accept, and her mind was desperately clinging to the faintest hopes for any other explanation. Treason was just as good as any. The few shards of rationality that were left in her mind were screaming at her, accusing her of delusion, but she wasn’t listening. For the first time since she had entered this dreaded room, Ros felt a faint touch of peace and acceptance. There finally was a good enough reason for all of this gutting pain. Ros closed her eyes with a sigh. It was so easy. She just had to believe it. Just for long enough.  
  
And, at the same time, there was no reason to try to outmaneuver Joffrey anymore. Treason is never treason for a traitor who believes in her cause. Letting it go was the only option.  
  
“Your… Your Grace,” she whispered, hearing her voice disappear halfway through the phrase as her throat produced nothing but dry gurgles. “Your Grace,” she repeated slightly louder. “I was wrong.” Tears started to stream down her face again, and she sobbed loudly and winced from the pain. “I was wrong, I—”  
  
Ros wailed quietly, closing her eyes. She could hear her own voice in her head screaming at her for calling this self-proclaimed judge and executioner His Grace. A part of her mind was cursing her for this, but a bigger part couldn’t care less. This way, there was peace, solace and closure. It was all that mattered in the end.  
  
“I was wrong to call you that,” she continued. “You… you are the one true King by blood, Your Grace.” Her vision slowly focused on the bolt protruding out of her, a blood-smeared shaft swaying with every faint breath she took. “You are the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and… I’m sorry, Your Grace, I don’t know the words,” she wept, staring at the red feathers at the end of the bolt. “I’m so sorry. I would say them if I knew them. Please, mercy, Your Grace.” The more she kept looking at the projectile, the more lightheaded she felt. “Mercy.”  
  
Joffrey stood silent with the crossbow in his hands, listening to her. “What is your name?” he asked quietly after heavy silence had filled the room again. “Tell me.”  
  
Ros sobbed loudly, looking at scarlet blood dripping onto the floor between her legs. “Ros, Your Grace,” she whispered and raised her head, looking at the King standing in front of her. “It’s Ros.”  
  
“Very well, then,” Joffrey spoke unexpectedly loudly and gulped, then raised the crossbow and looked at the girl along its frame. Ros stared at the tip of the bolt lying in the groove and held her breath. Would she have the time to feel anything, she wondered? Would she even register it flying towards her?  
  
Joffrey slowly tilted his head sideways, his mouth opening just a little as he squinted his eyes, looking at Ros. Suddenly, after a few more seconds, he scoffed sharply and lowered the weapon, looking at the bolt protruding out of her stomach. “You…” he hissed and pursed his lips, his eyes filling with rage again. Ros exhaled quietly, looking at him with her eyes wide open. “What have you done?!” Joffrey extended his free arm towards her, pointing at her hips, and the girl shuddered, staring at him in shock and feeling her heart start pounding in her chest from anxiety again, a feeling she had hoped had finally abandoned her just a couple minutes ago. “That’s… You… You’ve ruined the covers, you cunt!”  
  
Ros whimpered pathetically, gingerly looking down at the bolt. Dark red blood was leaking out of the wounds, streaming down her skin. Ros could feel everything. She could feel the flow crawling against her groin and her buttocks, she could feel the blood-drenched fabric of her tunic clinging to her body, she could feel the stream of blood trickling from between her legs and down her inner thighs; finally, she could feel all this wetness pooling up under her hips, forming a dark red puddle that was giving the very air around her the heavy smell and taste of iron. A pool of blood in the rich covers of the King’s bed.  
  
Ros gulped and raised her head, staring at Joffrey in fear. A grimace of fury was painted on the young King’s face, and the girl shuddered at the sight, realizing what she had done. Every single bolt in her body was deserved, every last one of them was there for a reason. She had to be thankful for the punishment… instead, all she had done in return was ruin the bedsheets with a bloodstain.  
  
Not just a traitor. An ungrateful one.  
  
“Your Grace,” she whispered in shock, staring into the King’s eyes and hearing her voice break. “I… I am so sorry, Your Grace…” She felt tears start welling up in her eyes again.  
  
“You’re _sorry_?” Joffrey scoffed and tilted his head, looking at her. “Well, what does it matter now?!” he exclaimed loudly, and the girl flinched, closing her eyes and feeling her chin tremble. Her fingers wrapped around the leather belt tighter, and she made a clumsy attempt at pulling herself up from the edge of the bed – an attempt that ended with a cramp running along her pierced arms and Ros dropping back down into the puddle of blood with a wet sound, howling from the jolts of pain that shot through her entire body.  
  
“No, no, no, no,” Joffrey chuckled condescendingly, and Ros froze, staring at him. “What is the point of that now?” The King scoffed and started to walk in circles nervously around the room again, glancing at the girl. Ros couldn’t take her eyes off him, her teeth digging into her lower lip. “What is the point?!” Joffrey suddenly kicked a tall metal stand next to his seat with an unlit candle on top of it, and Ros gasped as the unstable piece of furniture crashed down loudly onto the floor from the King’s outburst.  
  
“I-I just wanted to—”  
  
“I don’t _care_ what you wanted to do!” Joffrey screamed back at her, and Ros flinched, feeling the all-too-familiar wetness of tears on her cheeks. She blinked and took a deep breath cautiously with her chest; tears were choking her, turning her breath into a series of short and quiet gasps.  
  
Suddenly, Joffrey exhaled loudly and raised the crossbow again, and Ros froze in place, looking at the weapon through her tears. A kind, almost sympathetic grin illuminated the young King’s face, and Ros couldn’t help but smile back at him weakly, feeling the anxiety in her chest fade away again. “Thank you,” she mouthed soundlessly. He _was_ a merciful King, after all, and no words could describe the relief she was feeling now. Even after all that she had done, even after her ungratefulness, he was merciful. He shouldn’t have been; she didn’t deserve it. And yet he was.  
  
“You can sit all you want.”  
  
The crossbow clicked quietly, and before a slightest suspicion could creep into Ros’ mind, the feathered bolt darted towards her body and smashed precisely into her pubic mound, shattering the bone and slicing through the delicate flesh between her legs before finally coming to a full stop, deep inside the wooden plank under the blood-soaked layers of bed sheets.  
  
Ros’ mouth opened in a silent scream as her body arched, her legs immediately closing tightly around the fletching of the bolt sticking out of her mound. As pulsating waves of terrible pain rushed up her body, a sound finally escaped her lips; an inarticulate high-pitched raspy squeal, a pitiful attempt of her ruined vocal cords at expressing the agonizing sensation that was radiating from her destroyed crotch. Ros’ whole body shook in convulsions as the mind-boggling pain washed over her; her thighs were opening and closing as the muscles in her legs were contracting, red feathers of the bolt between them quickly becoming dyed into the darker shade of the girl’s blood. Shaking and squealing, wiggling around on the bolt that was pinning her to the bed and only tearing the wound wider, Ros felt the all-enveloping pain, the one that had taken over her entire body by now, the one flaming in her arms, in her leg, in her womb and now in her groin, start burning the last shards of her sanity away… and it was so far from the cleansing, welcome pain that she had been longing for, hoping that it would bless her with deliverance. How could she have been so wrong, Ros realized in horror, feeling it taking over her. This pain was anything but cleansing. It was so awful… Unthinkably awful. With tears in her eyes, she desperately tried to fight it, to push it out of her mind, but it was too late. The soft brushing of the bolt’s fletching against her inner thighs was the only distinct sensation that lingered for a little longer before fading away like all the others, and then, pain was all that there was left.  
  
The wailing that resounded across the room was a desperate scream of madness, above all else.


	8. VII

## 

**VII**

Joffrey Baratheon stood silent in the middle of the dark bedroom, an unloaded crossbow hanging from his hand. The dancing fires of the chandeliers reflected in his wide open eyes as he watched the redheaded girl squirming in agony in front of him, bound and pinned to his bed and shaking in pain.  
  
The sight was _absolutely mesmerizing_.  
  
The King exhaled quietly as his eyes focused on Ros’ hips with two feathered bolts sticking out of her flesh, one precisely between her thighs and another one just a bit higher. Slowly, Joffrey put his free hand to his mouth and wiped his face, unable to take his eyes off the girl. Her bare thighs twitched once again around the feathered bolt, and Joffrey felt that his costume was clearly too tight around his hips.  
  
He blinked and looked away, only just now noticing the dryness in his throat. Fighting the temptation to look at the whore again, Joffrey turned around and walked hastily to the table, dropped the crossbow onto it and poured some wine into the cup. The drink went down his throat in one gulp, and the young King slammed the cup down onto the table and reached for the lever, noticing his own hands shaking from the excitement. This whole experience was so surreal. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never thought it would be so thrilling.  
  
The lever crashed down onto the table with a clang, and Joffrey whirled around with a loaded crossbow and a feathered bolt in his hands, facing the girl. Ros was howling quietly, shaking and staring down at the floor, the bottom of her tunic colored dark red and feathered bolts sticking out of her body. An unbelievably captivating sight, Joffrey thought once again, slowly approaching her. Like a work of art. A painting.  
  
All it needed was one final brush stroke.  
  
“Look at me,” he commanded. No reaction followed. Ros kept staring at the floor, whimpering quietly, her limbs twitching.  
  
“Look at me!” Joffrey yelled, gripping the frame of the crossbow impatiently. The girl shuddered barely noticeably, then slowly raised her head.  
  
Joffrey felt a faint chill run down his spine. Her eyes… He had never seen eyes so devoid of any emotion. He could not see any fear in them, yet there was no anticipation, either. Her empty eyes were piercing right through him, staring past him into the distance. There was something deeply disturbing in this gaze… and at the same time, something incredibly hypnotizing. Joffrey could feel his heart starting to beat faster in his chest and blood rushing to his face as he kept looking into her eyes. It was something otherworldly.  
  
The memory of that evening when Margaery had visited him in this bedroom wandered into his mind again. What were her words as she was holding the crossbow, Joffrey tried to recall?  
  
“I imagine it must be so exciting to squeeze your finger here and watch something die over there…”  
  
The tightly drawn string of the crossbow brushed along the reinforced frame, and the feathered bolt plunged into Ros’ left breast with force. A sharp high-pitched gasp broke the silence as the girl twitched, all of her muscles contracting at once. Her throat produced a quiet wheeze as a few more cramps ran up and down her body, her pupils dilating as she kept staring past Joffrey into the darkness behind him. Suddenly, her muscles appeared to relax all at once, and one more twitch gently rocked Ros’ body before her head slowly lowered and hung lifelessly from her neck. Her spine seemed to have lost its rigidity, and her whole posture on the bed became soft as her body leaned forward just a bit more, hanging by the hands from the knot at the top.  
  
One by one, minutes were passing by, but Joffrey kept standing in place, his stare fixed on the whore in front of him. She looked so… serene, Joffrey thought. The sight of the girl’s motionless body seemed so strangely, inexplicably peaceful. It was such a stark contrast with all the kicking and screaming… It was beautiful, Joffrey suddenly realized. Beautiful – in its own way.  
  
He took a few slow steps back and gasped quietly when his leg touched the table. Unable to take his eyes off Ros, he dropped the crossbow clumsily onto the tabletop and slowly sat down onto his soft seat, then reached to the jug of wine blindly. What a strangely captivating sight it was, he marveled… Her screams and her blood and her body shaking in pain was something on the other level entirely; all of that was exciting and enticing and stirring up the desire beyond any expectations, but the finale of it was, oddly, nothing but pure beauty.  
  
It was only now that Joffrey suddenly picked on the sound of the lifted jug of wine clanging against the tabletop, making him notice that his hands were still shaking. He dropped the jug back onto the table and pressed his hand against his face instead, exhaling softly and feeling sweat on his forehead and his upper lip. His vision slowly focused on the unloaded crossbow lying on the table next to the empty cup. He reached to it again and touched its frame gently, then moved his hand along the groove, feeling the metal rivets under his fingertips. With a quiet grunt, Joffrey shifted in his seat and reached to the weapon with both hands to move it onto his lap. He slowly ran his fingers along the frame once again and closed his eyes for a moment, his memory serving him the moments of today’s evening.  
  
Oh, how sweetly Ros had screamed when the bolt had plunged into her hips. How her tears had been streaming down her pretty face this entire time… And she _was_ pretty, Joffrey admitted willingly. He opened his eyes, shaking off the trance, and lifted his head to look at her body. Somewhere deep inside, he could almost feel regret that she was gone. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to bring her into his room once again, he thought, if only that was possible. Just to see the grimace of agony distort her pretty face for the first time again… And to hear her scream for the first time in a wonderful mixture of pain and disbelief. Gods, that was wonderful, Joffrey remembered, feeling the tightness of his costume around his hips again. He could feel the air around him getting denser and hotter. Joffrey wiped his face with his hand one more time, rested his chin on his hand and blinked, finally forcing himself to look away from the red-haired beauty pinned to his bed.  
  
He needed fresh air. And some time alone.  
  
With the crossbow still in his hand, he stood up and headed past the bed into the corner of the room. The heavy wooden door creaked as it slowly opened, and the young King stepped outside, ignoring the two knights looking at him. He took a few steps up the stairs, then stopped and turned his head, staring at the featureless wall to his left. “I don’t need you to accompany me,” he hissed, and the knights behind him took a step back. “And Ser Meryn… I expect that my chamber will be clean when I return.”


	9. VIII

## 

**VIII**

Sitting by the side of the Iron Throne in the empty throne room, Petyr Baelish kept motionless while his eyes traced the intricate contours of the large metal chair in front of him. The swords forming the sculpture, big and small, long and short, had lost their edge a long time ago, yet they never lost their menacing appearance. A suitable sign of power for a seat of power.  
  
“A thousand blades, taken from the hands of Aegon’s fallen enemies, forged in the fiery breath of Balerion the Dread.”  
  
The corners of Baelish’s mouth hinted at a smile when he heard the slimy voice of Varys. The nobleman kept still as the bald master of whisperers, draped in his yellow shapeless clothes, soundlessly approached him, walking across the spacious hall.  
  
“There aren’t a thousand blades,” Petyr spoke with a condescending smile, his eyes still fixed on the seat of the King. “There aren’t even two hundred. I’ve counted.”  
  
“Ha! I’m sure you have,” Varys chuckled as he took one more step closer. “Ugly old thing,” he commented, turning to face the Throne.  
  
“Yet it has a certain… appeal.”  
  
“The Lysa Arryn of chairs,” Varys responded with barely concealed acrimony. “Shame you had to settle for your second choice.”  
  
Petyr turned to look at the bald eunuch, the same condescending smile still glued to his face. “Early days, my friend. It _is_ flattering, really,”—he slowly stood up from his seat and clasped his hands—“you feeling such dread at the prospect of me getting what I want.”  
  
Varys sighed, hiding a smile. “Thwarting you has never been my primary ambition, I promise you.” He tilted his head to the side. “Although, who doesn’t like to see their friends fail now and then?”  
  
“You’re so right. For instance,” Baelish took a step down the stairs leading up to the Throne, “when I thwarted your plan to give Sansa Stark to the Tyrells… _If_ I’m going to be honest, I did feel an unmistakable sense of… enjoyment there.” Petyr slowly approached his interlocutor and stopped by his side. “But your confidante…” He turned to face him, watching the smug expression on Varys’ face turn into a concerned one. “The one who fed you information about my plans, the one you swore to protect… You didn’t bring _her_ any enjoyment. And she didn’t bring _me_ any enjoyment. She was a bad investment on my part.” He turned away and continued on his path further away from the eunuch, hiding a smile playing on his lips. “Luckily, I have a friend who wanted to try something new. Something _daring_. And he was _so_ grateful to me for providing this fresh… experience,” Baelish turned around, opening his arms wide in a dramatic gesture.  
  
“I did what I did for the good of the realm,” Varys retorted, taking a couple steps towards him. It was not often that Petyr had the pleasure to see those clear signs of anger on the face of his opponent.  
  
“The realm?” Baelish scoffed, looking at him. “Do you know what the realm is? It’s the thousand blades of Aegon’s enemies,” he started to slowly walk back towards Varys, a smug smirk appearing on his face. “A story we agree to tell each other over and over, till we forget that it’s a lie.”  
  
“But what do we have left once we abandon the lie?” Varys stared into the eyes of the nobleman. “Chaos. A gaping pit waiting to swallow us all.”  
  
Petyr squinted his eyes. For a brief moment, his smirk almost appeared evil.  
  
“Chaos isn’t a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but they refuse. They cling to the realm… or the gods, or love… Illusions! Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is.”

## 

* * *

Robin of Langley  
2017


End file.
